Halfway out of The Dark
by kausingkayn
Summary: follow-up to "A Day in the Life" and "Behind Blue Eyes" For Jack Harkness, the darkness didn't go away with the sun-rise. Sometimes, it takes something even darker to scare away the pain.  Part of serial killer!Ianto series  Jack/John, Jack/Ianto


**Author's Note: Yes. I have died, that's the only explanation why I haven't been updating...that, and I'm almost exclusively on Livejournal now. I don't post my drabbles and stuff on here anymore - only this kind of stuff. Sorry, I promised this over Thanksgiving break...I got a little bit distracted. I won NaNoWriMo, wrote 56K, and still working on it. I'm at around 65K now, for those who are interested. Original piece, sorry!**

**This is a continuation of the Behind Blue Eyes series, which I have dubbed "The Behind Series" instead of "Serial killer!Ianto" because that just didn't have poetry, lol. Yes, the title of this was taken from the Christmas Special of Doctor Who this year. anyone else completely taken by Matt Smith?**

**Special thanks to my betas, Amuly and Medie. Love you two, thanks!**

**Also, this is set BEFORE "A Day in the Life" but I would suggest having read that and "Behind Blue Eyes" before diving into this fella. I promise it is good. Hey, Behind Blue Eyes even won runner up for the Children of Time Awards. ^_^**

**Enjoy, and drop reviews, they make me feel good, and will make me want to write the next multi-chapter fic for this instead of other things... -hint-**

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The music – if one could call it that – reverberated around the room, bouncing off the walls as if it was trapped in the living room. It invaded every nook and cranny, its one and only mission being to fill every available quite space on the fourth floor of the apartment complex. The notes waged war with the television speakers, fighting back the words and sounds that came out of them until all that he heard was a mottled mess. The water that sat in the short glass in front of the television shook in beat with the drums – that is, it would have been in beat if the music had a beat. In this case, it just wiggled along to a nameless chord.

Miss Denise Riley had about enough of the invading music. She had tried to ignore it for the better part of the hour, but she would take it no more. She had missed her favorite show because of it, and hadn't been able to hear herself think since it started. This wasn't the first time this particular tenant of hers pulled a stunt like this. The music was turning into a constant irritation – he would play it at insanely loud volumes at least once a week. He had also broken the smoke alarm in the small room of his and every time she went down to apartment 403, there would be a haze of smoke engulfing the entire room. But even though he was a constant irritation, Miss Riley didn't want to evict him from the apartment based on the sole fact that she would never find anyone else who would take it for her price. The man paid on time, every month. The apartment was the smallest in the whole building – just one medium sized room and a small door leading to an even smaller bathroom. He had been the only one to request it after her having it in the papers for months. And she would rather, in the long run, put up with the racket than not have any income from the room. The entire fourth floor, other than her apartment and her tenants, was being renovated, so she was the only one who was bothered by the interruptions. However, as soon as the other rooms were open for clients, she wouldn't be so pressed for money.

Miss Riley turned off her television and grabbed her robe, wrapping it firmly around her person before stalking out of the door. Just because she wouldn't kick him out didn't mean that he could play such loud and insulting music.

She rapped hard on the door to apartment 403 and stood there with her hands on her hips, completely ready to tell him off – again.

There was a moment where all she could hear was the offensive words of the lead singer, then suddenly the music was gone, and there was silence. Miss Riley's ears were ringing from the sudden lack of sound, and she was slightly off balance when the door in front of her opened.

The tenant that she so often complained to stood in the door, leaning against the frame but not opening the door the entire way, allowing Miss Riley only the sparest of glances into the room. The man was pale as could be, and had platinum blonde hair that was spiked out every which way – messier than usual, as if he had just gotten finished having a pillow fight. There was a nasty scar in the shape of a "Y" on his left eyebrow, both of which were black. His cheekbones were carved out of granite, and if it wasn't for her extreme dislike of the man, Miss Riley would have been completely taken by his looks. He wasn't wearing anything on his torso, baring a pale and nicely defined chest. There were several small red welts that peppered his neck and torso, disappearing as his boxers covered the more important parts of his anatomy. Miss Riley decided it best that she didn't think too far about those.

His hand that was curled around the doorframe showed his fingernails, which were painted black, and chipped. He was wearing eyeliner as well, but it was smudged and made him look even more under the influence than normal. As always, there was a haze of smoke around him and hanging in the air behind him – Miss Riley could also smell strong alcohol and something else under the stench, but she couldn't place it.

"Mr. Hart - " She began, the ringing in her ears finally stopping. "Your music is too loud! I can't even hear my own thoughts and I'm five doors down! I'm going to have to ask you to make it a more manageable level." She found that the rage she felt towards the man dissipated a great amount when facing him.

He smirked and shifted his weight to his opposite foot, glancing back into his apartment before turning to face her once more. "Well, Miss Riley," he started, drawing the words out, his accent thicker because of the substances coursing through his body. "You'll have to excuse me – just that Jackie boy here is quite the screamer – didn't wanna expose you to that."

He opened the door enough for Miss Riley to peek in, and blush at what she saw. Lying in the double bed situated against the farthest corner was another man. He was propping himself up with his elbows, and shooting her a large, 100-watt smile. His chest was bare as well, and his deep brown hair was in a state similar to John's. Where John was pale, though, the man was tan, and his skin was covered in much angrier looking welts. The right side of the man's torso was also very mangled, the flesh looking like it had been torn and twisted, almost as if he had been in a fire and had gotten horribly burned. Miss Riley's eyes moved a little lower, and the blush increased. It seemed as if the only thing keeping the man decent was the sheet that was precariously covering him. The man appealed to her eyes in a different way than John – where the blonde man was dangerous and sharply cut, made of angles and shapes, he was softer around the edges, but as in shape as his counterpart. His face seemed like one that would be on billboards for underwear instead of war campaigns.

She averted her eyes.

"Mr. Hart, I was lenient when you insisted on removing your smoke alarm – please don't test my hospitality." Then Miss Riley gathered whatever of her dignity she had left from the encounter, and returned to her apartment.

John watched her leave, even leaning out of the doorway a little. He watched as her shoulders tensed and he knew that she could feel his gaze. Chuckling once Miss Riley was out of sight, John pulled back into his room and shut the door, locking the deadbolt and chain. He ran his hand through his messy hair and shot Jack a predatory grin before heading back over to the old stereo. The thing was sitting on an old card table, and it was difficult to tell which was older and more decrepit. John turned the music back on, but kept it down low this time.

"One day, that woman isn't gonna take your shit." Jack said, letting out a small groan as he turned in the bed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up straight. He winced, and John pretended that he didn't notice.

"The bitch won't do anything as long as I pay her." John retorted, snorting at his own words as he walked over to the small kitchenette. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, both of which he threw at Jack, who caught them with the same hand. A bottle of vodka also came out of the small, college-dorm sized fridge, which John kept for himself.

He had already taken two large swigs by the time Jack removed and lit up a cigarette. John watched as Jack took a long drag, letting the smoke out slowly, his eyes closed in concentration. John chuckled, and grasping the bottle tightly in his hand, he went to the bed, setting the bottle on the too-short nightstand. Using his hand and being careful not to touch the twisted flesh on Jack's body, John pushed him gently until his back hit the bed.

Jack's eyes were open now and an ornery smile graced his lips. John loved that smile; that look. He climbed on top of the naked man, straddling him, his knees on either side of Jack's hips. He reached forward and plucked the cigarette out of Jack's fingers, taking a long drag before leaning down. The two men met halfway with a kiss, open-mouth and sloppy. The smoke and alcohol fumes mixed together in their mouths, turning the flesh inside numb so that they couldn't taste each other. John brought his one hand up to tangle into Jack's hair – he knew he was getting cigarette ash in Jack's hair, but he really didn't care, and he was sure that the other man didn't either. The worst that could come out of it was really slippery shower sex.

Jack arched up and John leaned down, their bodies melding together. Jack's hands slipped lower, his fingers playing with the waistband on John's boxers, pulling them down until they were hanging around his ankles. John lifted his feet off and shook them, feeling them slip off his feet. Grinning into the sloppy kiss, John broke away long enough to grind the cigarette into the bedside table, leaving it there so he could have full movement of both his hands. He pulled Jack further onto the bed, the man's hands too busy roaming to do it himself.

John left Jack's mouth, traveling lower, licking a path down his body. He kept to the left side, careful once again not to touch the scar that extended down Jack's entire right body and down his right leg.

"Fuck." Jack groaned and John stopped. That wasn't a '_fuck, keep going.'_ That was an expression of pain.

"You okay, love?" John asked, concern filling his voice as he moved up on the bed, swinging his leg over Jack so that he was no longer straddling the man. He looked into Jack's eyes and saw a haze of pain filming over them. He crawled off the bed, rummaging through the mess of clothes and old food on the floor until he found Jack's bag. He dug into it, pulling out a small prescription pill bottle and took out one. Closing his hand around it, he grabbed the vodka bottle and handed it to Jack, dropping the Vicodin tablet into his hand. Jack grit his teeth and swallowed it dry, waiting a few moments before taking a swig from the bottle.

John gently got back into the bed, this time with completely different intentions. His touch was soft – loving, as he ran the back of his knuckles down the length of Jack's left arm. "How much does it hurt?"

There was a list of questions that John was supposed to go through, when the pain flared up. He was supposed to remember the answers, write them in a log, and turn it all in to Jack's physical therapist the next time he was scheduled for an appointment. John skimped on a lot of paperwork. In fact, he didn't just skimp on paperwork, he plain didn't do it. But he wrote down everything that Jack said, every time the man felt the pain in his company. He watched as Jack leaned his head back, hitting the headboard on the small twin bed. It was a tight fit, for the two men. When Jack spent the night – which was happening a lot more, these days – they had to almost sleep on top of each other. Not that John minded, of course.

"Like…a seven." Jack said, his eyes closed, his breathing regulated and forced. John bit his bottom lip, a small memory trick he had learned. Think about the thing he needed to remember when inducing pain. It would make it easier to remember later. He could have gotten up, looked around until he found a pencil, and wrote it down, but he didn't want to leave Jack at the moment. Although whether it was for the man's benefit or his own, John would never tell.

John turned, grabbing the pack of cigarettes and lighting a new one for himself, taking a long drag and blowing out the smoke, watching as it blended in with the rest of the haze that was dancing around the room. The music in the background was no longer enjoyable, since they weren't using the beat for anything creative. Sex was the furthest thing from John Hart's mind, however, as he watched Jack. The man was beautiful – all of it. Everything that came with him. The mood swings, the sudden onset of pain that the doctor said wasn't there anymore. 'It's all in his mind. The physical part of him is healed; it's the mental issue that's stopping him.' Doctor Martha Jones had said. 'That's why the pills don't work anymore.' But John still gave them to him and Doctor Jones continued to fill out the prescription. They had tried to stop him, once, she hadn't refilled his bottle when he ran out. He was in pain for almost an entire day before John had stormed into the woman's clinic and demanded that she give him something to stop the pain, because he couldn't watch this anymore. He couldn't take it.

She had given him what he asked for.

"Oh, Jack." John whispered, not realizing he had said anything until the man's eyes opened, a questioning look in them. John cupped the right side of Jack's face, his thumb softly stroking the undamaged skin. He watched as Jack's eyes fluttered back closed and his lips parted oh so slightly. Something caught in John's throat.

He leaned forward, softly brushing his own lips against Jack's in a gentle and caring manner. Before the accident, before Jack had fallen apart, John wouldn't have been able to do this. Jack would have just pushed him away, laughing, talking about how cute it was that John was actually trying to kiss him like they were in a real relationship or something. But now, the man leaned into it, needing the precious contact.

John's hand slid down to rest gently on Jack's shoulder, his hands slipping a little further than he had meant when he tried to reposition himself next to Jack. His fingers roughly grazed against the mottled flesh on Jack's arm and the man yanked back.

"Don't touch me." He hissed, starting at John's touch. "Don't…I told you…"

"Jack…Jack, love. Look at me." John said, trying to bring the man back to him. He hated this – hated when Jack did this. "Jack, calm down. I'm sorry…I'm sorry."

He grabbed Jack's wrists and at first the man pulled away. After a few seconds of struggling, though, he calmed down.

"Oh shit...John…I'm sorry." Jack said, turning his head so he didn't have to look at John's face.

"It's ok, Jack, I shouldn't have done that. I know…"

"No! No, you don't know! That's the point, isn't it? You have no idea how pathetic I feel right now. It's been a year, John. So why can't I get over it? Why do I still have nightmares, why do I wake up and my skin is on fire, and I'm covered in blood, and I'm screaming because I'm full of holes, but none of its real." Jack took a deep breath, and it came out as a sob. With shaking hands he took a long swig of the vodka bottle, not even wincing as the tasteless liquid burned its way down his throat. Jack stared at it for a few second, then threw it with all the strength he could muster. It flew a few feet before crashing into the ground, the bottle shattering and the liquid splashing everywhere, getting on their clothes and the dirty rug, causing the entire place to smell like alcohol.

Jack ran his hands through his messy hair, his eyes red due to a mixture of lack of sleep, drinking, smoking, and barely-held-back tears. He looked at John, pressing his lips together to keep the tears at bay until he couldn't any longer, and he let them drip down his face. His eyes were full of shame and self-pity, and John couldn't help but hurt for him.

"Why won't it stop, John?" Jack asked, curling into a protective ball, falling over so that he leaned on John's shoulder, the side of his body pressed against John's side. "Why am I so fucked up?"

He didn't sob; he just let the silent tears fall down his face until he fell asleep, John holding him the entire time. The black-painted nails slowly thread their way through Jack's hair, soothing him with actions, not stopping, even after Jack's tears stopped flowing and his breathing slowed.

"Love you, sweetheart." John murmured into Jack's hair, long after he was asleep. His eyes roved over Jack's naked body, not out of lust, but just admiration of the beauty that was there. Jack couldn't look past the scars and the pain, but John could. He saw what was underneath. It just needed time and compassion, and it would make itself known.

He took another drag from his cigarette.

**-xXx-**

The front door to Gwen's apartment opened slowly, hesitantly. Jack slipped in, ignoring the lights, knowing that Gwen should be asleep, and not wanting to interrupt her. She had been working double shifts the past few days, and was knocked out as soon as she came home.

He closed the door behind him painfully slow, not wanting to make a noise. He let out a soft sigh as it clicked shut and turned, trying to make his cane as silent as possible as he limped down the steps, taking twice as long as any normal person, and wincing all the way. He turned the corner and was suddenly blinded as the lamp turned on, illuminating none other than Police Detective Gwen Cooper. Jack jumped, scared to death. The woman looked positively intimidating, and Jack wondered how long she had been sitting there. A frown was etched into her attractive features, her eyes hard and cold. It reminded Jack of the look she gave suspects she was about to interrogate.

"Damn, Gwen, scared me." He said, giving a lopsided grin that was only a ghost of the patented Jack Harkness megawatt grin. Her face didn't change.

"Where were you, Jack? It's almost four in the morning." Her Welsh accent was clipped with anger. Jack bristled. This wasn't good. It also wasn't any of her business.

"None of your damn business." He snapped, growing a frown that could almost match hers. "I'm going to bed."

He started to limp off, tired and hurting and not wanting to clash heads with Gwen at the moment. But she seemed to have other plans, and jumped out of the chair, getting in his way. She put her hand out to stop him, the edge of her thumb coming dangerously close to touching his scar through the t-shirt fabric.

Jack growled. "Get out of the way, Gwen. I don't feel like doing this right now."

She winced as the smell of his breath drifted up her nostrils. She glared at the redness around his eyes, and the unshaven shadow he was growing on his face. His dirty clothes and how he smelled like vodka and smoke. The welts on his neck, the slight puffiness of his lips. "You don't feel like doing anything right now?" She asked, and Jack could help but take a small step backwards from the ice layered in her words.

"You don't feel like showing up to _my_ house at a decent bloody hour, you don't feel like cleaning the guest room you've moved in to, or paying rent, or getting a damn job! You don't feel like doing anything but hanging out with that bastard John Hart!"

"Leave him outta this!" Jack snapped, his left hand coming up and pushing Gwen's arm out of the way, but he didn't storm past her. Not yet. "What the hell gives you the right to yell at me about this shit? Why do you give a damn who I spend my time with? I'm trying, ok?"

"Trying my ass!" She yelled, her hands curling into fists "You've been telling me for the last year that you've been trying! But you come home later and later, pissed or high out of your mind, your Vicodin bottle empties twice as fast as it's supposed to. Every time I talk to you, you say you're trying to deal with it, but all you're doing is wallowing in self-pity! Please, Jack…"

"You have no fucking right to be standing here and lecturing me. You of all people! I saved your fucking life; this whole thing is because of you! Don't you dare stand there and lecture me about my life, you bitch!" He knew as soon as the words left him mouth, they were the wrong things to say. But his body was completely on fire, and he couldn't stand up any longer. He couldn't deal with this anymore. He tried to storm off, the effect hindered by the fact that he had to use his cane to limp out of the living room. This time, when he passed Gwen, she didn't stop him.

"I can't do this, Jack." She said as he hobbled away. "I can't just stand here, watching you destroy yourself…what happened to the Jack Harkness I knew…?"

"He was shot to death a year ago by drug dealers." Jack spat, not even turning around. He made it to his room and slammed the door, dropping his crutch as soon as the door was closed. He collapsed onto the bed. This time, when he cried, there were no tears. Only dry sobs that wracked his entire body. He was in so much pain, that he couldn't feel anything. He was burning again – the small pellets that he knew the doctors dug out of his skin were burning him like they were still there, poisoning his flesh. With shaking hands, he scrambled for his bag, pulling out the Vicodin and popping two in his mouth, swallowing them dry. He didn't feel them as they scratched their way down his throat, and he also knew that they wouldn't help with the pain. They had stopped helping a very long time ago. He pulled himself the rest of the way onto the bed, allowing the sobs to put him to sleep. He didn't hear the pounding on the door as Gwen tried to knock it down, crying for him to let her help. He didn't hear when she gave up the pounding and told him that she was going to sleep at the door, please let her in.

Jack Harkness slept through it all, because he was too busy dreaming about innocent looking houses and shotgun shells and Gwen's arms around his, holding him, both of them covered in blood as he bled out on the floor, his police uniform stained forever with blood.

**-One Week Later-**

There are many pleasant ways to wake up in the morning. For Jack, those things include, but are not limited to, waking with his arm around a man who had been there all night, waking to the smell of coffee, and waking up knowing that you could go back to sleep if you wanted. One way that was as far away from waking up pleasantly as possible was to have a huge bucket of freezing cold water thrown into your face. Which was why Jack wasn't exactly in a pleasant mood when he woke up.

He sat up gasping, his skin prickling, his shirt and sheets soaked from where the water hit. His eyes were wide, and he stared in shock at Gwen, who was leaning against the doorway, a large, now empty bucket in her hand. She was dressed in her Detective outfit, which was basically a pantsuit with a shoulder holster. Her arms were crossed, and as soon as she saw he was up, she turned to leave. "You have ten minutes to get ready."

He wasted one of those precious minutes staring at the spot she had been leaning on long after she was gone. "Wha…?"

He got out of bed slowly, his head pounding like it was going to explode, his vision blurry as he stumbled into the shower. The past week had been absolute hell. Gwen had taken to ignoring him, probably to show how much he needed her. She had been right, of course, he did need her. Jack just wasn't going to tell her that.

He had been spending most of his time at John's, actually spending the night a few times. If he did come back to Gwen's, it would be at extremely insane hours. He didn't think he had been sober or in his right mind for more than a few hours since he and Gwen had yelled at each other. His stubble had turned into an ugly-looking beard, and he was starting to carry around him a smell of desperation and substance-abuse like the one that followed John. He was sinking deeper and deeper into a hole that was almost impossible to get out of. He had run out of Vicodin yesterday, two weeks early. He hadn't been pain-free since.

Out of surprise and shock, and a little more curiosity that he wished, Jack got ready. He guessed it was for a police case, due to the way that Gwen was dressed. After taking a shower, he spent a few minutes shaving. He knew he missed a couple spots, and that getting rid of the almost-beard make the circles under his eyes and red-rims even more prominent, but he didn't care. Twenty-five minutes later he stumbled out of his room, half expecting Gwen to have left. She hadn't though – she was sitting there, waiting for him in the same chair than she had a week ago. Jack was a little more presentable this time, though. He had pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that was somehow miraculously clean. Overtop of it he had pulled a brown blazer that matched his belt and shoes. His cane was prominent in his hand, even though he hated the thing.

Gwen's face didn't betray anything as she stood up, almost stalking towards the door. She paused when Jack didn't move and turned around, frowning. "Well, you coming?"

He hesitated for a second, wondering if he was ready to go back. Could he go back? He remembered that day, a year ago, when Gwen had to wheel him in. Half of his body was covered in bandages. Clean, white bandages that showed nothing of the pain and ugliness that was hidden underneath. People had stared at him, whispered behind his back. There was the Homicide Detective who had been gunned down a few weeks ago. Gwen had wanted him to come back, to face the station as he went to deal with paperwork. He remembered sitting there, across the table, staring at Chief Eccleston as the man read over his hospital record. The look in his eyes as he stared at him, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. Wishing it wasn't going to be true.

'I'm sorry, but according to your doctors, Detective Harkness, you won't be able to rejoin the force.' Those words had broken him more than anyone ever thought they could. The force was Jack's life; it was what he lived for. They said he wouldn't regain full use of his shooting arm. He would never be able to run, to chase. He'd have to drive with his left foot. He was a liability. After that, he lost the only thing that mattered enough in his life to fight for recovery. Sure, Gwen was there. And John. But it wasn't enough. Jack just didn't have the drive anymore. His recovery, that had been so good that first week, dropped drastically. The doctors had no idea what had happened – what had gone wrong. He went from being a miracle patient to the worst they had seen as far as his recovery went. He didn't care anymore. Sometimes, Jack wondered what would have happened to him if he didn't give up. Those were horrible nights for him.

"Yeah." He said, finally, stumbled forward.

The car ride was that eerie, awkward silence where both of them knew there was a huge pink elephant in the car, but neither wanted to talk about it. Finally, as the police station came into view, Gwen talked to him. "A dog was sniffing around in the back yard a week ago, found a human bone. Little girl who has been missing for over two months, turns out. Dead about that long. We have enough evidence to bring the step-dad in for questioning, but not to make a formal arrest. We know he did it, he knows he did it. But we can't get anything to stick."

She stopped the car, pulling up in the reserved spot especially for Detectives. Jack used to have one of those parking spots. Back when he could still run and shoot and drive with his right foot. He didn't have one anymore. He swallowed.

"Look, Jack. This bastard needs to be put away. We've used up everything we have. I need…we need you to look at this for us. You've always been good at pulling something out of nothing." She said, turning in her seat as she unbuckled herself. Jack frowned a little, thinking about it. Gwen was asking for his help on a case – no. She was asking if he could do this. If he could walk back into the police station. If he could deal with it. If he was healed enough. He took a shaky breath, and nodded. "What the hell you waiting for? Let's go."

Something that looked like a smile briefly passed Gwen's face, but she turned before he was able to get a good look at it. Jack saw it anyway, but didn't say anything about it. He opened his door and hopped out, glancing at his cane before pulling it out of the car to lean on. He still hurt.

Jack paused at the double glass doors of the police station, his hand on the bar labeled 'push.' His heart was beating in his chest, his eyes suddenly unfocused. He swallowed thickly, his body suddenly shaking. How many times had he walked through these doors before? How many times did he bring a criminal through these doors? He closed his eyes, remembering that morning. He had swaggered in, his large Air Force greatcoat on that belonged to his father, gun on his hip holster. He had smiled and waved to everyone in the station as he walked to his desk, and everyone had nodded or waved back. He had complained about the shitty coffee, sat down at his desk, and whined about the paperwork as he and Gwen worked through it together. Then he had gotten a call from the chief, about a tip they had gotten earlier before his shift – it was connected to the drug case they had been working for almost six months. They jumped on it. This time, he had run through the doors, not pausing to wave or say hi to anyone. If he knew what would happen, would he be so happy to run to his death? Would he have jumped in his car with a smile on his face as he talked about kicking ass all the way there in the car?

"Jack? Jack, are you ok?" He was shaking, but not on his own accord. Gwen was gently pushing him. He opened his eyes and glanced at her, glassy-eyed not because of smoke or alcohol, but because of tears. There was worry in her eyes, as if she noticed that she might have pushed him too far, too soon. They exchanged a look, and both were forgiven. That was the way things worked with them. Gwen was the woman that Jack could sit on the couch with, a bottle of cheap wine between the two of them as they gossiped about everything like schoolgirls. She was the woman he would have married, if only he loved her like that.

He gave a tight-lipped smile, and pushed through the doors.

He hobbled through, pausing as the door banged shut behind him. Gwen stood next to him, not touching him, but providing support if needed. The waiting room was buzzing with conversation and movement. The young lady at the front desk wasn't familiar – she must have been new in the last year. Jack felt a tug at his heart as he figured that out. He used to always be there for the newbies, to screw around with them, give them their hazing. He took a breath and started forward. The hard part would be through the single, white door. Behind that door was the brains of the Cardiff police operation, where everything happened. Where he used to practically live his life. Would it have changed, like the woman at the desk?

There was a bought of silence, as he pushed through the doors. Everyone glanced up to see who entered through the doors, and when they recognized his face, they fell shocked with silence. He remembered so many faces, it was too much. He was shaking in fear and pain, and he couldn't move. He couldn't walk forward. He tried to pick up his feet, or to say something suggestive and crude like he normally did in the mornings as he walked through that plain white door. But all he could do was stand there.

"Harkness." Came a voice and he turned. Mickey, from the violent crime division. Jack worked with him on one case – the man was annoying as hell, and they always traded snide comments. He was also a great drinking partner and a great officer. The man gave him a nod. "What's up, Captain Cheesecake?"

That one bit of normalcy snapped Jack out of his frozen state. The look in Mickey's eyes told Jack that he knew, and that it was ok. Mickey dealt with people who had been through traumatic situations on almost a daily basis. He nodded back. "None of your damn business, idiot."

They exchanged a small smile and suddenly his legs worked. He limped forward, and the people who recognized him gave him a small nod or a smile, sometimes a wave. With each step he gained a little confidence, with Gwen walking right behind him. She stopped at her desk to grab a file and Jack purposefully didn't look at his. He didn't want to see the new files piled up or the jacket over the chair. He couldn't deal with that, not yet.

"Here you go. Do your magic." Gwen said as they entered the interrogation room. The room was split into two parts. The smaller part was the viewing room, where officers could watch through a large double-sided mirror as the person inside was interrogated. Jack stared at the man through the window, taking a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had stood in a place like this, staring through the window. Too long.

He glanced at the file and read over it quickly. He looked at the man in the room. He was sitting ramrod straight; his hair slicked back with way too much expensive gel. There was a predatory look in his eyes, like a hawk who was hunting a mouse and didn't care whether or not the mouse knew it. He wore a suit that was fitted to the T, and an expensive brand, from the look of it. Perfectly trimmed goatee, young around the face, a little aged around the middle. His hands were folded on the table, fingers intertwined. He was completely laid back, completely in control. He was smug and haughty because he had raped and murdered a little girl and no one could prove it.

Jack narrowed his eyes as he caught something and glanced down at the file in his hands, searching for something specific. His eyes flicked back and forth; file to man to file. Gwen watched the entire thing, her eyes growing wide.

"You bloody bastard!" She said. "You solved it already!"

Jack gave a sideways smile; his eyes alight in what looked like the first real emotion in his face in over a year. He straightened up and sat his cane aside, leaning it on the brick wall. He gave her a questioning glance. "You wanna do this, or shall I?"

"Oh, go ahead, your highness." Gwen said, shaking her head. She wasn't supposed to let him in the room, but Jack needed this. He needed to remember what he had lived for. What it felt like to put evil away. He needed to feel alive again.

She watched from behind the glass as he limped into the room. It hurt him without his cane, Gwen knew this. But he would have never gone into that room without it.

"Hello, Mr. Carson." Jack said, sitting down so he didn't have to show how his right foot was slightly lower than his left. He twirled the chair around before straddling it, folding his arms on the back of the chair. He leaned his chin on his arms, and smiled.

Mr. Carson didn't say anything – he just stared back, a frown on his face.

Jack sighed, rolling his eyes. "Do you want to confess, Mr. Carson? Because either you can or I can do it for you. If you confess, you can plead guilty, and your sentence is reduced. If I confess for you well…you're fucked. I'd suggest buying soap on a rope, but all it does is let you stand up when they take you."

There was a shift of something in the man's eyes – Jack caught it. A small flash of fear, so miniscule, but for Jack, it was the loudest thing in the world. Jack smiled, waiting. But the man didn't talk. Jack knew he wouldn't. He was a proud man.

"Where is your ring, Mr. Carson? Your college ring?" Jack asked.

Gwen watched from behind the double-sided mirror and frowned, glancing down at the case and trying to figure out where the hell Jack had gotten the ring from.

"Who's that?" A voice right next to her ear whispered, and Gwen jumped, letting a small expletive slip from her mouth as she turned to be face to face with the new Chief. The man was tall and gangly with a mop of brown hair and glasses that slid down his nose every few seconds. His big eyes shone with good humor over the top of them, and his blue pinstriped suit only added to the overall look. He was a young man who looked like he should be holed up in his college dorm room watching Doctor Who, not a man who would lead the Cardiff Police. But there was more to him than meets the eye. His wife, Rose, died during the terrorist attack on Canary Warf several years ago. He had caught a serial killer in London, and led many task forces, all of which had been successful. He was a man to be respected, but also liked. He was hard when he needed to be, and lenient on the rules. Justice doesn't work well when it was wrapped up in red tape, he'd always say. He didn't look angry that there was some stranger interrogating their suspect. Only intrigued.

"Jack Harkness, sir." Gwen said a little sheepishly.

She watched as his eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into his bushy mop of a haircut. "Jack Harkness? Your old partner? What's he doing?"

"Apparently, solving this case." She said, turning her eyes back to the room. Mr. Carson was sweating now, his face not so confident.

"What's this stuff he's going on about a ring?" The Chief asked, taking the case file from Gwen's hands, his finger pushing his glasses back up on his nose, his eyes skimming back and forth as he absorbed the information.

Gwen shrugged, then watched at the Chief's eyes lit up too. "Bloody hell." She muttered. "Am I the only one who doesn't get it?"

The Chief chuckled and turned back to watch the interrogation. He liked this Jack Harkness.

"See, Mr. Carson. We found your ring. The dog that found the girls body didn't just chomp on her arm. He also swallowed the ring. We recovered the ring after the dog's body took its course, and compared the ring to the strange mark found on the girl's cheek – what was left of it, anyway." He held his hand out, towards the door. Behind the glass, Gwen's eyes widened.

"Shit!" She squeaked, for several reasons. One was because Jack figured all that out within seconds. Two that he wanted a class ring. Now.

She ran out into the hallway and grabbed Andy as he passed. The boy was always bragging about his ring from high school. "I need your ring, Andy."

"Why?" He asked through a mouth-full of donuts. Gwen just rolled her eyes and yanked at his finger until it came off, then pulled out an evidence bag from her belt and threw the thing inside of it before rushing back to the interrogation room, ignoring Andy's abusive remarks.

She opened the door and tossed the bag at Jack, not believing that he winked at her as she closed the door. That was something the old Jack would have done. She went back to the viewing half of the room, unable to hide the smile on her face, especially when the Chief looked at her. "Might want to get those handcuffs ready, Detective."

Jack looked at the ring in his hand and waved the bag in front of Mr. Carson's eyes, too fast for him to get a good glimpse at it.

"How the hell did you get my ring?" The man demanded, standing up, fury in his voice. They were the first words he had said since Jack entered the room.

Jack raised his eyebrow and remained sitting. "So you agree that this is your specialized ring, Mr. Carson? The one you were wearing when you beat this poor little girl?"

"Yes! I mean, no!" Mr. Carson cried, stumbling over his own words in anger. Jack smiled and turned, giving Gwen a pointed look, knowing exactly where to place his eyes as he looked at the mirror.

"Need anything else while I'm at it?" He asked.

Gwen laughed and entered the room, handcuffs in her hand and open, ready for use. "You, Mr. Gregory Carson, are under arrest for the abuse, rape, and murder of Caroline Greane." She gave him his Rights and Warnings, tightening the cuffs just a little too tight, and smirking as he complained about it. Before pulling him out of the room, Jack held up the bag. Mr. Carson studied it, his eyes growing wide.

"That's not even my bloody ring! You fucking bastard!" He screamed, and Jack laughed as Gwen dragged him out of the room.

Jack relaxed in the chair, unable to remove the genuine smile from his face. He wasn't even able to hide it as someone else entered the room. The Chief smiled, nodding at Jack.

"Well done, Mr. Harkness. Glad I could finally meet the man that my Detective always talks about." Jack paused for a moment before he recognized who the man was. 'My detective.' Oops.

He stood up quickly, almost falling over as he didn't get his balance back right away. He winced as his right foot shot a sliver of pain up his body, but held his hand out. "Sir. Sorry about being in here…"

The Chief shrugged and shook Jack's hand. "Don't care. Too much red tape now adays, not enough justice." A pause. "Are you employed, Mr. Harkness?"

"Jack. And no…" He shook his head. "I don't think you can use me, sir. I'm a…" He couldn't get the word out. _Liability._ Even after all this time.

But the Chief nodded his head, a large, blinding smile bursting out. One that almost could rival Jack's old ones. Jack realized that the new Chief was quite cute, in a geeky kind of way.

"Well…" He drew out the word, and Jack couldn't help but let a small smile slip out. "You don't have to carry a gun to work in a police station, Jack. And I need to find a Criminal profiler to have on duty."

Jack's smile grew. "I'm not certified, sir."

"I don't care if you're certified, Jack. What I care is that you just walked in on a case we've been working on for a week, glanced at the case, and solved the entire thing in under an hour."

"Well, then, Chief. I'll think about it."

"You do that." The Chief said, but he knew that Jack had already made up his mind. And so had he.

**-xXx-**

Gwen took Jack out, for several reasons. One was to celebrate the arrest of Gregory Carson, and the other was because the man sitting next to her at the bar was the man who had been her partner and best friend for years, and she was afraid that if she took him back to her house, he would revert back to the shell of a man he had been for the past year. They were laughing and talking about old cases like the past year hadn't even happened. She was loving this, hoping that it wasn't a temporary thing. If only she had thought to bring him to the police station earlier.

"I have a question though." She butted in on Jack's retelling of an old murder case – the first he had solved singlehandedly, actually. He paused halfway through a word, falling silent, a large grin on his face. His fingers played with the beer bottle that Gwen had ordered for him, but although she was on her second beer, he hadn't touched his. "How did you know?"

"Magicians never tell their secrets." Jack said, and Gwen just rolled her eyes and snorted.

"Shit, that is." She said, punching him playfully in the arm – the left arm.

He chuckled, then nodded, clearing his throat in a theatrical and completely over the top manner. "He was a stuck up business man who got where he was because of the name of his college. Nothing else really huge happened in his life. Knew he wore a ring because of the tan line on his finger. He tanned once every two weeks, about. That's the safe limit, and seeing that it's cold as hell frozen over outside and he was glowing, that's the only option. The tan line was faint, meaning that he hadn't been wearing it to the tanning bed. He had been wearing it before, meaning that he lost it. Line was on his right hand, so it wasn't a wedding ring. Plus, there was a strange mark on the girls face."

"Bloody hell." Gwen muttered, shaking her head and taking a swig of her beer in a completely lady-like fashion.

Jack chuckled and smiled, holding his hands out wide. "Hey, what can I say?"

Gwen smiled, then pointed at his drink. "Well, genius, you going to drink?"

He glanced at the beer, staring at it for a few heartbeats. Then he shook his head. "No…I'm done with that." He pushed it away, and Gwen felt her heart almost burst. He grinned at her and she giggled like a school girl. Because her Jack was back.

"Wanna head home?" She asked, nodding towards the door. Jack nodded and they slid off of the bar stools. Gwen grabbed her jacket from under the seat and slipped it on, frowning as she caught sight of a familiar face in the corner of the bar. "Wait."

She focused and frowned. It was Owen Harper. The nasty git worked for the tabloids as a freelance reporter. He dug into everything and anyone in order to get a story, damn the facts. He was huddled in the corner, talking on the phone and glancing over at them. Seeing that they were leaving, he said a few quick words and hung up before waltzing over to them, a cheesy grin on his face that was supposed to be charming, but missed its mark by a mile.

He slid up to them, invading their space. "Hello beautiful." He said, smirking at Gwen. She frowned at him, the urge to flip him off overpowering her. He shrugged and turned to Jack.

"Hello Jackie boy. I see you're at it again, mind if I get a few quotes for the paper?"

"Fuck off, Owen." Jack snapped, leaning heavily on his cane for support.

"No comment then? Hasn't exactly been a speedy recovery for you, has it? Miracle boy takes a year before stepping back into the place that broke him. Tell me, did you have to grovel to get into the interrogation room, or did you just play the terrorized victim, sobbing about how you need to go back to the room where it all came falling apart…?" A recorder popped out of nowhere, the receiving end stuffed into Jack's face.

Gwen snarled and reached out, grabbing Owen's wrist and pushing it out of Jack's face. "Leave him alone, Owen. Unlike you, he's doing a job to benefit mankind."

Owen shrugged and smiled again, slipping his recorder away. "He puts the bastards in jail; it's my job to write about it. I've got enough quotes though." He grinned and turned, walking away.

Gwen frowned. "Come on Jack. Don't let him get to you."

Jack shook his head, his breath coming out shaky. Gwen glanced at him, and watched as a little bit of the light flew out of his eyes. She never wanted to kill that rat Owen more than at that moment.

"I need to go." He whispered and Gwen nodded. She took his arm and led him through the front door.

The street was filled with reporters, who started to shout as soon as Jack left the building. He reeled back, startled as the bulbs flashed and questions were thrown from all around. Gwen turned to try and find Owen, but he was gone. He must have tipped off some reporters that she and Jack were there. Word spread fast; when Cardiff's best two detectives were once again working on a case. Especially since they were literally starved of a story about the accident that caused Jack to have to leave. The police station had banded together to protect Jack and had said nothing. Now, it seemed, the reporters were out for blood.

"Harkness! Where have you been the last year?"

" –true that this whole thing has been a stunt? A call for attention?"

" …Carson trial? Will you be testifying?"

" – The drug dealers that shot you…"

" Harkness! Jack! What do you have to say about the pictures of you with one of Cardiff's most notorious addicted private eye, John Hart?"

" – What does it feel like losing full mobility of half of your body?"

The questions kept coming, onslaught after onslaught. Gwen was calling at them, trying to push them off. Jack backed up into the door of the bar, unable to move. He was hyperventilating and breathing too slow at the same time. His heartbeat was in his throat and his legs wouldn't move and his side was _on fire._ Too many questions, too many memories. The light bulb flashes turned into muzzle flashes, the questions meshed into frantic yelling. Gwen's voice mixed in. '_it's going to be ok, just hold on. Don't stop breathing Jack. God damnit, Jack! Don't leave me!'_

He felt himself start to collapse. His arms came up to cover his face. He was losing control. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't…

A hand grasped his wrist like an iron clamp and he was suddenly and forcefully yanked out of the mass of reporters and dragged around the side of the building, where he was pressed against a wall. The partner to the hand around his wrist slapped onto Jack's mouth to prevent him from calling out. The hands were super strong, like iron. Jack struggled, hesitating a bit when both hands withdrew and a finger appeared on a pair of thin, pale pink lips. "Shh, come on."

The words had a Welsh lilt to them, and the voice was deep – male. Jack caught a glimpse of black hair and blue eyes, then the face turned. The grip on his wrist lowered until they were holding hands and Jack was forced to walk at a fast pace. He stumbled, his right foot unable to keep up with his left. The Welsh mystery man led him to a car, which was unlocked and waiting with its keys in the ignition. The man shoved him in the passenger seat, then jumped in the driver's seat and roared out of the driveway, away from the reporters, and Gwen, and safety.

Jack couldn't breath. He was being kidnapped. That was the only thing that could be happening at the moment. He was kidnapped in front of the media. He would be killed and his body dumped. But it wasn't the thought of dying that struck Jack the most. It was the fact that he had spent the last year of his life being a pathetic loser. He would have continued his thoughts until they led him to an epiphany about his life and how he needed to turn it around for real, but he was jarred out of his near-death thoughts by the cutting of an ignition. Here it came.

He turned, expecting to look into the eyes of a crazed murderer. Instead, he stared into two pools of the deepest blue that Jack had ever seen. They were beautiful and he found that he was lost in them. He still couldn't breath, but it was no longer out of fear.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Harkness, but you seemed like you needed a bit of help." The Welsh words did the jig around Jack's head, and he nodded, focusing on the rest of the man who had so roughly kidnapped him. The clothes he was wearing hid his built, but if the man's grip was anything to go on, then Jack knew he had to be ripped. Soft face; even softer eyes. Black hair that was combed perfectly into place with not too much gel that it looked greasy, but not too little that a few pieces were falling out at the end of the day. The Welsh man held out his hand, and – dumbstruck – Jack took it.

"Jones, Ianto Jones." The man said, and Jack found his body reacting on its own, his face breaking out into a shaky grin.

"Nice to meet you Jones, Ianto Jones."

There was a small twitch on the man's professional face. A smile maybe. But it was quickly gone, hidden under the mask the man wore. Jack felt something about the man, as he searched his face. Something hidden. Something…dark. And broken. Like him…just like him. "Don't mean to be rude, but…what the hell just happened?"

Ianto raised an eyebrow and sat back in the seat of his car. "I'm supposed to interview you. Since I saved you, you owe me."

Jack opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. The man had saved him from a surprise attack paparazzi mob. He closed his eyes and nodded, his fingers curling into fists as he prepared himself for the attack of questions about his injury. About his failure of life the past year. He prepared himself for another breakdown.

There was a rustle of paper, and the drawing out of a pen. A deep breath. "This case involving business tycoon Gregory Carson has been going on for a week. Can you explain your connection in the speedy close of the case?"

Jack opened his eyes, shocked. Ianto Jones sat there, his face completely serious, his eyes staring into his, waiting for an answer, his pen poised above his paper, ready to write whatever Jack said.

Jack answered that question, and the next one, and the next one. They traded questions and answers for over almost an hour; Ianto sticking to the case and previous ones he had solved. Not once did the man hint at the drug smuggling case or Jack's personal life. Not once.

Ianto nodded as he looked at his paper and closed his notepad; carefully capping his pen and sliding it back into his jacket pocket. Jack noticed that there are several different kinds of writing instruments in the man's breast inside pocket of his blazer and that they are organized from most used to least common. Ianto didn't even have to look to know the small hole where his pen belonged – between the pencil and mini tape recorder with a clip on it.

"I'll take you back to the bar." He said, almost mechanically.

Jack delivered his thanks, but shook his head. "That's ok, I'll get out here. There's a payphone right there."

His hand reached for the handle to the car, but he stopped and turned back to Ianto. "Can I ask you a question now?"

Ianto's eyebrow raised something he had done several times throughout the interview – a movement that Jack had liked more and more each time. He took it as meaning 'go ahead.' The man was one of few words, even in asking his questions.

"I was thinking…dinner? A movie?" _dinner? A movie?_ Where the hell did that come from? Jack inwardly cringed. That had to have been the worst line he had ever delivered…ever. He had been good at this, once. Before.

"Are…you asking me out on a date?" Ianto asked, his face showing emotion for once. Jack blinked – had he really thrown the man off, asking that? He had reacted almost as if he hadn't been asked that before, which was ridiculous, the man was gorgeous.

"Interested?"

"Seven fifteen tomorrow, Italian place by the bay." Ianto said, crisply, his façade back in place.

Jack gave a huge goofy grin and slid out of the car, watching as the small car drove away, driving exactly the speed limit. He walked the length to the pay phone and didn't even notice whether or not his leg was hurting.

**-Four Months Later-**

"So, the guy starts running, right? And he's got hundreds of dollars falling out of his pockets and his hands, and he keeps going! Right out into the bay! Idiot wasn't paying attention where he was running!" Jack said, his sentence dissolving into laughter. The man sitting across from his chuckled softly, a small smile on his face. He reached for his glass of wine – only the best, and his other hand drifted to his throat, making sure that the napkin is properly and equally tucked into the collar of his crisply dry-cleaned shirt.

"I know you heard about that Ianto. It was all over the papers." Jack pointed out, using his fork as his punctuation before taking the last bite of their shared dessert. He washed it down with his third glass of water, and gave a dazzling smile to the waitress who had returned with the check, letting her leave with a large tip and a blush. He removed his credit card from the jacket sleeve of the bill and slipped it into his wallet. Jack stood up, watching Ianto do the same. They both slipped on their jackets and exited the restaurant. The stars were bright in the sky and Jack looked up at them, his smile wild and untamed. He thanked every single one of them as he reached out and intertwined his fingers with the Welshman next to him and leaned over, giving him a kiss out in front of the restaurant. Ianto responded eagerly, even though when they parted he berated him softly for the public display of affection, which he wasn't too open about. Jack, on the other hand, was natural at showing affection, and reminded Ianto of that by kissing him again.

Ianto gave Jack a small smile, which lightened Jack's mood even more. Ianto doesn't talk a lot. He's quiet, reserved, and worked a lot more than even Jack, whose plate was currently full with cases to evaluate and re-evaluate. Ianto was gone in the mornings that Jack stayed at his place, but that was ok, because he was either in the kitchen making coffee fit for the gods, or left a note saying he had to go into work. He didn't like shower sex, or sex anywhere else than the bed, but Jack was working on that. Ianto hadn't yet warmed up to Gwen's straightforward nature, and didn't understand his strange friendship with Mickey. Ianto was innocent sometimes, and completely dirty the next. He had his secrets, and didn't like talking about the past. He didn't have any friends or really talk to anyone other than Jack. He had strange habits, and all of the clocks in his apartment were set to the same time down to the second.

Jack found himself loving every bit of it.

He tightened his grip on Ianto's hand, and he felt the man respond in kind. They walked back to the car in comfortable silence, where Ianto would drive back to his apartment, going exactly the speed limit all the way there. Jack would tease him about his intense OCD, and Ianto would say a one or two word jibe that had Jack laughing all the way home. They would talk about something random, or maybe turn on the television with a cup of coffee. They might have sex, or they might just fall asleep together. Jack loved the predictability of it all, the stability. He might even be able to move out of Gwen's apartment soon, and let her have the place to herself again, although he wasn't sure she would know what to do with the space. Fill it with another man perhaps. One that could love her in ways that Jack couldn't.

Jack felt his phone vibrate once in the back pocket of his jeans – a text. He watched Ianto get into the drivers seat and pulled the phone out, quickly reading the message.

**From John Hart to Jack Harkness**

_Hey luv. Warm my bed 2nite?_

Jack read the text one more time, the happiness he had been feeling just seconds ago crumbling around him. He wanted to close the phone and slip into the car, smile at Ianto, tell him it was nothing when he gave him that look that meant he wanted to ask, but doesn't feel like wasting words. But he typed out a quick message before getting into the car. He still told Ianto it was nothing, but his phone burned him as they drive away.

**From Jack Harkness to John Hart**

_Give me 3 hrs._

_

* * *

_**Thanks for reading! Be on the lookout for the next installment come summer. Also, I'm kausingkayn on both Twitter and LJ. Stop by and say hello!**

**Reviews are appreciated 3**


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